Aunt Eunice did not dispute the point. Neither, you may be sure, did Caroline.
When dinner was over they went into a large, square room that opened off the dining room. All round the room were shelves of books in many-colored bindings, and there was a great writing-table across the western window. There was a fireplace, masked with an old-fashioned fire-screen on which a landscape was worked in faded silks, and above the fireplace was a marble mantel on which were a pair of bronze vases. But there was no piano!
Caroline sat down in a low chair, which Aunt Eunice recommended to her, and wished that she had Mildred in her arms. She began to feel very much alone, with these people who were really not her people, and a little bit frightened. Older folk than Caroline have felt that way, in a strange place, among strange faces, with the day ending, and no way of knowing what the next day may bring.
Sallie brought in a tray, with matches and a spirit-lamp, a canister that savored of rich coffee-berries, a little glass coffee machine, half filled with crystal clear hot water, two cups, thin as egg-shells, and small almost as eggs.
Aunt Eunice put the machine together, measured the coffee, as if she performed a religious ceremony, and set the lamp beneath the globe of water.
“Of course you don’t take coffee, my dear,” she spoke kindly to Caroline. “Go look in the drawer of the table over there. I think you’ll find a box of candied ginger. Help yourself!”
Caroline took courage, as she saw Aunt Eunice smile.
“If you don’t mind,” she whispered, “I’d rather—have you a piano?”
She felt that Cousin Penelope, cool and aloof in her chair by the window, looked at her, surprised and not altogether pleased.
“Of course, dear,” said Aunt Eunice readily. “Right across the hall in the long parlor. You can find your way?”